Toronto Diary- Missing the Grandson

I am badly missing him. One whole week gone. He flew to India to visit his Naani. And here it is silence, only silence. Only three persons left back: two old people and his father. The father who is busy, always busy in his den. Work, work and work. And Dylan, the huge cute dog who is dumb; he never barks. He only sits either at the window or at our feet and meditates. And we watch TV or sleep. There is not much to talk about; we don't even have the usual fights we used to have back at home. Silence prevails, hangs on our hearts like a pall of dark clouds. Once again reminded of Samuel Beckett. Of the two vagabonds, Vladimir and Estragon. And of the famous dialogue depicting the ennui of their endless wait for Godot: nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful. 

Only a week has passed. The house was so much full of noises. So vibrant, so exuberant. So excitingly full of drama.Now it seems, it has been engulfed by a void. All drama, all excitement is gone. Vanished. Yes, Viplav made it lively. He was the blithe spirit sprinting from one corner to another; one window to another; from bedroom to living room ; from living room to the garage, from garage to the couch ; and from couch to the kitchen. Frolicking, sprinting, laughing ,crying, jumping, crashing. 

Yes, he was the pervasive spirit of our home. For me, he is Mr Chunchun or Chunnu. For his grandma, Little Rama; his parents call him SFO after the great innovation city of San Francisco in America. With all his names, he is "the joyful sprite," " mid- May's eldest child" as Keats would call him, for our whole family. 

Yes, I miss him. Miss his winking, sparkling eyes.I miss his mischievous smile. I miss his pranks, as well. I miss his languorous sleep walk in the morning when he would come sometimes haltingly; on others,stumbling; from the bedroom in the morning and slump on the couch, not at all bothering to pay heed to his mother's shouting to get up and get ready for the school. Very much like his grandpa, I would say! I too am very still and in a speculative mood as I wake in the morning and don't want to be spoken to for a while. It takes a Herculean effort for Chunnu's mother to get him ready for the school. As Shakespeare says in his 'Seven Stages of Man', Viplav," the whining boy"too goes with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school.

Go he must: there would be no escape from the hawkish clutches of his loving, yet stern mother. So, very reluctantly, he would trudge to the car and get driven to the school yard. 

Once he would leave for school, there would be silence in the home again, except the routine ' khatar- patar ' of the kitchen and other such mundane jobs which characterise households the world over. Dylan would sit cozily in a corner looking at the happenings with the eyes of a stoic. I would have nothing else to do except catching up on news. My mornings here are crammed to the brim with vacuum as there are no newspapers available. Addict as I am, I really miss my morning papers here. So I have to make do with the piecemeal and fractured news available on YouTube. After I have gulped down a couple of large cups of tea along with "the coloured pieces" of what they term as " news", am forced into the bathroom for a quick shower. 

Breakfast etc would be served. Then what? Nothing! TV again or a book or calls to friends back home. Or, if I feel like, withdrawing to my room for a quiet nap, and “perchance to dream”. 

Chunnu would return around 3pm after a fun- filled day in a school where, I am told, there are three recesses , two game hours, and one class for studying. With his return, would come the storm. He would fling his ' basta' and begin his 'activities' to bring us a bag of joy. He would straight away come and joyfully pounce on me pretending to attack me and I would "capture" him in my stranglehold saying ," Now I have captured you. You can't escape." And he would grapple with me trying to wriggle out. This game would go on again and then again, until he would get distracted and grope for the TV remote to watch his kids TV. I would try to snatch it from him but he would elbow me out saying it was kids' time. So, the struggle would go on: sometimes I would control the remote's button, on others it would be he who would be the master of ceremony. Anshul would scold him, shout at him, but did it affect him? It was our own tug of war, and no one was allowed to poke their nose in our affairs. 

Then Anshul would try to distract us by handing me some book which I am supposed to teach him, or alternatively, make him read. But Viplav would be least interested, nor would I be. Sometimes, he would snuggle to his grandma and lie on her and affectionately hug and kiss her. But I think he prefers me over her and would be in constant dialogue with me, sometimes heatedly arguing with me, sometimes teasing me, at other times pulling my leg and challenging me into a grappling bout. 

Evenings would be reserved for the neighbourhood play park. While we would take a walk around, keeping an eye on him, he would climb up or slide down or run around, sometimes chasing a bird, sometimes standing near a water spout to chill himself. A lot of fun- filled hours in the park until it would be a time to return. As per his mother's instructions, he was our Incharge, so he would hold our fingers and directs us back home giving us instructions about when to cross the road. 

After dinner, the frolics would begin again. Fights for the TV control," the capture game", the grappling and the mischiefs tincture with naughty smiles and loud laughter. His mother's scoldings would have impact only for a short while. Only the presence of his dad can daunt him. But then, he charms him also with his glinting, mirthful eyes. Thus, the evening would eclipse into night. Our eyelids would be heavy with sleep but Viplav would still be active as ever. Ultimately, his mother would coerce him into his bed and force him to sleep. 

So, who won't miss such a chirpy and mirthful little grandchild? The days are dull, and the evenings moody and morose. All joy is amiss. And it will be so for so long as he is away from my eyes. They will twinkle only when he is back in my arms. He will come but not before a month . Until then...